Anne Mather - Fallen Angel

Immediately she was aware of the tautness of his body, of the moist male smell of him that no written word had ever warned her about. She could feel the hard muscles of his legs where hers were touching him, and longed, with an incomprehensible yearning, for something she hardly understood; for some contact between them that was not compounded of sympathy and comfort.

‘Jason …’

His name on her lips was a plea for understanding, but when he turned his head and parted his lips against her palm, she fairly snatched her hand away and pressed it tightly to her. Her startled eyes were mesmerised by the probing force of his, her whole body tingling with emotions she was not equipped to handle. She felt her breasts taut against the thinness of her vest, shameless in their eagerness, her head was swimming, and her legs, weak and trembling, scarcely had the strength to support her. Then she glimpsed the dawning cynicism in his gaze, the mocking curve of his mouth—and guessed his intention had been to achieve just this result. With a shudder of reaction, she pulled herself away from him, and his hands fell loosely to his sides.

‘Yes,’ he said, and his voice was low and angry, ‘you are just a child, aren’t you, Alexandra? So don’t try to play the femme fatale . It doesn’t satisfy.’

‘I—I suppose you think I’m afraid of you!’ she burst out jerkily, her arms folding about herself, as if for protection, and he nodded.

‘Aren’t you?’ he demanded, and then, as if his patience had spent itself, he brushed past her and left the room.

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